


Down To You

by motorcitydreams



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcoholic Dean Winchester, Angst, Angsty Schmoop, Dean Winchester Has Issues, Dean's Stellar Communication Skills, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Pre-Series, Stanford Era, This is very dark, heaps of angst, it might be short, please mind the tags, seriously lots of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-16
Updated: 2019-04-16
Packaged: 2020-01-15 05:14:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18492091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motorcitydreams/pseuds/motorcitydreams
Summary: Dean drank. Heavily, and frequently. He knew the dangers and was fully aware that he was drinking himself into an early grave.He just didn’t care.





	Down To You

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd. All mistakes are my own. If you like, leave some love, if you want! Any constructive criticism is appreciated!
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://ohnoitsthebat.tumblr.com)

Dean drank. Heavily, and frequently. He knew the dangers and was fully aware that he was drinking himself into an early grave.

He just didn’t care.

Another day, another bottle. Sometimes it was Jim, sometimes it was Johnnie. Today, it was Jack. Dean didn’t even bother to pour the liquid into a shot glass, just uncapped the bottle and drank straight from it.

Actually, _guzzled_ would probably be a more appropriate term. Dean didn’t even wince when the bitter liquid sizzled down his throat and settled in his stomach, igniting a fire there. He simply wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, dirty from another day at the garage, and took another swig. _Ahhh. Hits the spot._

In the beginning, Dean had drank just to take the edge off, and only now and then. When he had a particularly exhausting day at the garage, or some shithead had tried to stiff him on pay. Things like that. It was no big deal at first, and if you’d asked Dean, he would have said that he had his drinking under control.

What a load of bullshit. Dean could (and had, numerous times) deny that he was an alcoholic, could spout convenient excuses all day long ( _“it relaxes me”, “I don’t drink before 4 pm”,_ etc), but it was all crap. Grade A crap.

Then again, Dean Winchester had a Ph.D in bullshit, with a specialty in denial.

Whatever. It didn’t matter anymore. Dean was alone–again. Dad had gone off to God knows where, and Sam. Well. Sam had made his decision. Dean knew exactly where his brother was, but he’d be damned if he was going to chase after him like a goddamn puppy dog.

But he couldn’t help but miss Sam. Dean picked the half-empty bottle up, raised it to his lips, and drank.

The last thought on his mind before he passed out was Sam.

Always Sam.

**********************************************

Sam was never much of a drinker. Sure, he and Dean had shared beers over the years, and of course there was Sam’s 21st birthday, when he’d drank out of obligation. His college buddies, Brady in particular, had insisted. Drugs had also been passed around, but Sam refused to partake of them.

But although Sam very rarely drank, he did have a secret indulgence. Okay, so _technically it was a drug_ , but it gave him calm and quiet, helped slow his racing thoughts.

Sam looked around quickly before pulling a joint out of his jacket pocket, bringing it to his lips, and sparking it. He was cautious, not because he thought he would get caught–more so because he didnt want to attract the attention of his fellow students. Sharing is caring seemed to be the motto, in regards to drugs, alcohol, and other pleasures, but Sam didn’t feel like sharing.

Except with one person. As Sam exhaled, he thought about Dean, as he often did late at night. Where he was, what he was doing, was he even alive?

Sam felt a twinge of guilt. Dean’s birthday had passed, and Sam hadn’t called. But on the other hand, Dean never called him, either. Didn’t make any effort to contact him.

Reconciliation is a two-way street.

**********************************************

Dean felt like death warmed over. He rubbed his eyes with the back of one calloused hand and stumbled onto his feet, swaying a bit.

“I’m never drinking again,” Dean mumbled, his steps hard and clunky on the wooden floor. “Jesus fuck.”

Bile lapped at the back of his throat, a clear warning, and Dean knew it wouldn’t be long before the contents of his stomach would be expelled. No sweat; Dean and the toilet were good pals at this point. With a guttural groan, Dean heaved his lethargic, still-drunk body into the tiny bathroom just in the nick of time.

Yeah, this vicious cycle of self-destruction had to stop.

Dean actively railed against confrontation and talking about his feelings–unless it was preventable, naturally. But this had to stop, and if Dean had to be the one to make the first move, then he would.

There was nothing he wouldn’t do for Sam. Dean would gladly swallow his pride if it meant getting Sam back.

So he pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialed Sam. His heart nearly leaped into his throat when he heard that honeyed voice.

“Hello?”

“Heya, Sammy. It’s me.”

*END*


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